


oh, lay my curses out to rest

by ReinventAndBelieve



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (due to the nature of being cursed; they both want to), Accidental Knotting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Sex Curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinventAndBelieve/pseuds/ReinventAndBelieve
Summary: Geralt takes one look at him, his brow furrowed, and says, “You’ve been cursed.”“Yes.” Jaskier lets out a weak, rueful laugh. “Yes, well, I’d rather figured as much.”or:Jaskier is cursed after an intimate encounter with a sorcerer that was, shall we say, ill-advised. Surviving the night will require facing some uncomfortable truths with a certain witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 672
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	oh, lay my curses out to rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ssleif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssleif/gifts).



> This is my gift for [do-what-the-knight-tells-you](https://do-what-the-knight-tells-you.tumblr.com) (or ssleif on AO3) for The Witcher Secret Santa! Hope you enjoy! 💜
> 
> Title from the song Curses by The Crane Wives.

Geralt takes one look at him, his brow furrowed, and says, “You’ve been cursed.”

“Yes.” Jaskier lets out a weak, rueful laugh. “Yes, well, I’d rather figured as much.”

The thing is, Jaskier knows better than to fuck with sorceresses. He’s not a fearful man by nature—his lack of fear gets him in trouble more often than not—but all it took was one memorable instance of waking up next to Yennefer of Vengerberg and nearly being gelded for his pains to instill in him a very sensible caution of sorceresses.

Sorcerers, on the other hand, sorcerers he doesn’t tend to give the same wide berth. He’s had no reason to. Sorcerers he’s had no such misfortune with.

Until, perhaps, today.

He takes a moment to observe his surroundings; portals tend to be quite disorienting. A fairly small cavern connecting to a corridor presumably leading outside. A small fire with a cooked spitted rabbit beside it, just pulled away from the flames. Geralt’s bedroll laid out to the side, next to his saddlebags, his swords, his armor. Beside the fire, Geralt kneels, staring up at the bard with a bemused frown. 

A new wave of overwhelming need hits Jaskier. He feels the heat rising in his ears, his fingertips, his gut, his cock. 

_Especially_ his cock. 

Jaskier takes a breath and fixes the witcher with his most disarming smile. “Well...fancy meeting you here, Geralt! Strange, isn’t it? Life?”

The frown deepens, sullying Geralt’s lovely, scarred face. “Jaskier, what the fuck?”

“It’s rather a funny story, really. You see, tonight I was to play for the gala celebrating the thirtieth birthday of the king of Cidaris. It’s quite the honor, to be sure; he requested me personally and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“And you were portalled to my exact location in Toussaint because—?”

“Oh, is this Toussaint, truly? What luck, I _love_ Toussaint in autumn! Do you think they’ve begun serving that delightful mulled wine they love to break out once the temperatures drop? Gods know I could use a glass of that, Geralt, I must confess that my nerves are…”

“Jaskier!”

He sighs, biting his lip. “Right. As I was saying. I was playing for the birthday celebration, and I perhaps had an intimate encounter that was...shall we say, ill-advised?”

The look Geralt gives him could freeze a volcano, Jaskier feels quite certain, yet somehow it only serves to make the unbearable heat coursing through him even more frenzied. Every sense is heightened. He feels quite certain he can smell, even _taste_ the witcher, even from several feet away: that comforting, familiar combination of leather and sweat and horse and his herb satchel. Is this what Geralt feels like all the time? Jaskier’s not sure he could bear it.

Gods, but Jaskier wants to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, tug him close, press his face into that scarred, ivory neck and just _breathe_ that scent. Wants to bask in it, let it mingle with his own.

The most unfortunate, downright _torturous_ part of the spell is that it hasn’t added any new desires to the repertoire that usually courses through him in Geralt’s presence. The magic has simply made it impossible to ignore those urges, repress them as he has for years.

“Stop staring and tell me what you did, bard.”

Jaskier doesn’t want to answer. Jaskier wants to claim complete inebriation, maybe, or temporary insanity, and run from the cave and never speak of this evening ever, ever again. What comes out instead is, “In my defense, I feel it important that you know I didn’t necessarily realize he was a sorcerer at the time.”

Well, shit.

It’s not exactly a secret that Jaskier fucks men, not something he actively hides from Geralt, but he tends to handle such encounters with a touch more discretion than he sometimes has about female partners. For the sake of the men he sleeps with, he rationalizes, because some of them are not open about such things, but he knows it’s an excuse, and a piss-poor one at that. No. Jaskier doesn’t flaunt his male conquests around Geralt because he knows that it’s a small leap from _Jaskier sleeps with men_ to _Jaskier wants to sleep with me_.

And he does, quite desperately, though never before as desperately as in this very moment. It’s rather remarkable, really, that after decades there are still untouched depths to his desire, apparently accessible only through magic.

Geralt, for his part, takes Jaskier’s slip with the pronoun into stride. No, his issue doesn’t seem to be with the gender at all. “A fucking sorcerer,” he repeats with a weary glare. “You bedded a fucking sorcerer and now this is, what? A jealous spat? Revenge?”

Jaskier truly didn’t think there was any blood left in his body not currently occupied, but he’s proven wrong as his face heats. “I didn’t know,” he insists miserably. “Were his gold and purple robes a touch garish for a nobleman, even at a ball in Cidaris? Perhaps, but I’ve never been one to begrudge a man for having a touch of personal flair! He certainly didn’t introduce himself as a sorcerer when we first, ahh, spoke.”

Geralt snorts but doesn’t comment further, nodding for Jaskier to continue.

“It’s possible that he and I may have had a bit of a fumble behind a tapestry in between song sets. It was nothing serious, just a bit of fun, you understand, with an invitation of joining him in his chambers after the ball.”

He feels a bit light-headed, suddenly, his vision swimming.

Geralt notices and jumps to his feet, lowering Jaskier carefully onto his bedroll. Sitting this close, the curse feels like a physical force, like a great magnet drawing Jaskier to him, closing the distance. Geralt doesn’t comment, lets himself be leaned upon, but when his fingers skim the bard’s wrist, Jaskier can’t suppress the violent twitch. The touch _burns_ like a brand.

Geralt jerks away from him on instinct, golden eyes scanning his face carefully. “Jaskier,” and Geralt’s voice is like the rumbling of the earth itself, Jaskier feels it in every cell of his body, “I need to know what you did so I can help.”

And Jaskier can’t tell him, vows not to ever, ever tell him. 

Because if Geralt knows, it’s over. The easy companionship. The gentle ribbing. The casual touches that mean nothing to Geralt but everything to Jaskier, the ones he stores up in his heart whether or not he wills it, the simple hand to the small of his back guiding him to a merchant’s stall in town squares, the bumping of shoulders as he passes, the hand on the scruff of his neck to stop him from running into dangers on the Path.

“It’s not that simple,” he insists. 

Geralt looks away. When he looks back at Jaskier, his mouth is set in a hard line, but his eyes look…

Concerned. Almost _scared_. 

“Well, perhaps it is,” Jaskier admits in defeat. “I went about my business, made sure I looked presentable, then performed my next set. King Ethain was thrilled by my work, might I add. But for my last song for the evening, I sang my last entry in the saga of the White Wolf. The one about the bruxa.”

Geralt nods. After he’d first heard the song a few months ago, he gave Jaskier an itemized list of every point he’d gotten wrong over a pint of ale, trying to hide that tiny flicker of a grin the whole time. It had been one of the longest strings of words Jaskier’s ever gotten from Geralt without being prompted. It made him _soar_.

“And so I took my bows, paid my deepest respects to his most gracious majesty, thanked him for his continued patronage, and I went in search of my new acquaintance.” Jaskier looks away from Geralt. Wonders how little he can possibly get away with saying. “I found him, in the same corridor we’d stumbled into previously. He looked a touch...heated, I suppose? But it wouldn’t be the first time my performance has inspired such an impassioned expression, you must understand, so I mistook his countenance for amorous rather than wrathful.”

Geralt doesn’t speak.

“When I was close enough to notice something was amiss it was too late. He crowded me against the wall, snarled some unpleasantries that I’d rather not dignify with repetition, opened a portal and shoved me through. And here we are.”

Jaskier waits. He knows it isn’t enough, knows Geralt will demand more, but prays to any god that may be listening that he doesn’t.

When the bard steals a glance, he sees the witcher staring intently at the glowing logs of the fire, tension apparent in the set of his jaw. “Sex curses tend to be ugly. Deadly if left untreated.” Jaskier can’t help the horrified noise he swallows as best he can. Geralt turns to him, an unexpectedly fierce streak of _empathy_ in his golden eyes. “I won’t let that happen. We’ll get you somewhere to...burn through this.”

A brothel. Geralt wants to take him to a brothel.

Which...of course he does, what other option is there, truly? It would make sense, Jaskier supposes, in most cases. With most sex curses.

“I don’t think that’s the best of ideas,” Jaskier grits out, leg jittering desperately, anything to rid his body of this horrible, barely contained energy, the dam threatening to burst at any moment. “I’ll wait it out. Or...I can take care of myself, after all, can’t I? I’ll find myself some privacy and just have an absolutely _obscene_ wank session the likes of which haven’t been seen since my school days, I may chafe before it’s all said and done but then it will be over.”

“Most such curses demand a partner.” Geralt’s low voice gentles as he places a companionable hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “We’re not far from Beauclair. There’s a nice establishment near the...”

Jaskier closes his eyes. “He said if I like the bloody witcher so much it’s him I should be fucking tonight.”

Geralt drops his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Apparently he didn’t much care for my song,” Jaskier mutters, morose.

He hears Geralt stand, pace listlessly, but he doesn’t leave.

Jaskier wraps his arms around himself, his eyes still closed. The curse wracks his body relentlessly, leaving him a shaking mess. He’s been really and truly ill only once in his life, when he was a young boy in Lettenhove and a spring fever spread through the keep and nearly claimed his life. He remembers the way the chill seemed to permeate every burning cell in his body, yet the memory can’t begin to compare how he feels now. Ice and fire can’t coexist in a vessel for long. 

The sound of the witcher’s movement ceases abruptly, the only noise remaining the crackling of the fire.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier turns to look at Geralt, but the witcher has his back to him. He doesn’t answer, struck mute by the unexpected apology. What could Geralt possibly have to be sorry for?

“He attacked you because of your association with me,” he continues, his voice a bitter growl.

“Geralt.” An off-kilter, disconcerting laugh leaves his mouth, a noise he doesn’t even recognize. “Geralt. He cursed me because he’s a thrice-damned, woe-begotten _arse_. This isn’t your fault.” He takes a breath, unsteady fingers unbuttoning his doublet, desperate to...to breathe, to cool down, to feel anything but this all-encompassing need. “I just…might you perhaps give me a touch of privacy, Geralt? I know that’s rich, coming from the man who portalled into _your_ campsite, and I do apologize for that, but I don’t think I’ve the strength to make it out of here.”

“Can’t do that.” He sounds oddly choked.

“What...what do you mean?”

Geralt turns to face him. “I’m supposed to, what? Let you die, knowing that whatever you try won’t work?” He shakes his head, a hollow laugh on his lips.

And then he methodically begins to unbutton his trousers.

“Whoa, no no no, now, hang on,” Jaskier stammers, the heat in his face nigh unbearable. “No. No. Geralt, I’ll not have you...do something you’d rather not. Not because I’m an idiot.”

“I’m a witcher,” Geralt deadpans. “Comes with the territory.”

A new flash of pain hits Jaskier, one that has nothing to do with denying the curse’s insistent impulse to touch, starting deep in his belly and radiating out. “Perhaps that’s so,” he says quietly. “But not things like this. Not at my hands.”

Geralt looks at him for a moment, searching. Then he strides forward, kneels beside him on the bedroll, and slowly, carefully draws the bard into his arms.

Jaskier nearly sobs in relief at the touch. In an instant, everything in the world seems clear. Why is he fighting this?

He needs this.

He’ll _die_ without this.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says again, this time a whisper against Jaskier’s hair. He rests a hand at the bard’s waistband, looking to him for permission.

Gulping, Jaskier nods.

Deft fingers untie his laces and slip inside. A huge, sword-calloused hand envelopes his cock, stroking him.

“Better?” 

Jaskier can feel the word rumbling between them as much as hear it.

“Yes,” he pants, thrusting into Geralt’s warm fist.

He feels Geralt nod against him. “It’ll be easier once you come.” His voice is as steady and reassuring as the hand on Jaskier’s cock. “Curses like this don’t take well to denial. The chills, dizziness, all of that will lessen when you’ve shown you mean to comply.”

“Fuck, Geralt,” he breathes, clinging to his shoulder. “I’m...”

“It’s okay.” Geralt’s gravely rumble sounds strangely resolute as he twists his wrist, drawing a gasp from the bard. “I’ll take care of you.”

And it’s _stupid_ , Jaskier should know better, should control himself better, but he’s been so hard for so long, and the words and the way his thumb rubs just right beneath the head of his cock have Jaskier coming with a broken cry, burying his face in Geralt’s shoulder as he coats the witcher’s hand and his own shirt, jerking through his pleasure.

Geralt doesn’t speak, just works him through it, slowing his hand as Jaskier twitches with oversensitivity. He isn’t...isn’t _softening_ like he should be, but the urgency has certainly subsided as Geralt pulls his hand away silently, wiping it thoughtlessly against his own trousers.

Jaskier floats for a moment, allows himself a few stolen seconds of indulgence before he raises his head to look at the witcher.

Geralt’s face is impassive, unknowable, carefully and deliberately blank. It’s an old expression, one he’s not bothered to use around Jaskier for years.

Jaskier feels himself sinking. 

This...this isn’t _right_ , pulling Geralt into this, not when he doesn’t want Jaskier, not when Jaskier wants nothing so much as him. No matter that Geralt offered. No matter that he insists. If the options are Geralt bedding him and hating them both afterwards or Jaskier dying in a frozen fevered magical hellscape, he knows which he’ll choose.

Geralt clears his throat, pulling away and staring at the floor. “It’ll buy you a few minutes,” he mutters. “I can give you some privacy, if you like, before the curse flares again.” He hesitates, and then: “I truly am sorry.”

“Dammit, Geralt, would you please stop apologizing? I can’t bear it, really I can’t.” He shakes his head, a desperate huff on his lips. “Don’t act as though this is some...some _hardship_ for me when you know that I…”

He stops. Forces himself to breathe, even as the shame rushes through him. “You shouldn’t apologize,” he repeats, forcing his voice into something much calmer than he feels. “I dragged you into this, and not the other way around. _I’m_ sorry, Geralt. Sorry that you feel compelled to...to sacrifice your own happiness to take care of me. Sorry that, once again, you’re forced to clean up my mess.” He laughs wetly. “Although this is certainly a new sort of mess, isn’t it?”

Geralt tilts his head to the side, studying him. “It’s not for me either,” he says after a moment, not quite meeting his gaze.

“What?”

“Some hardship.”

Jaskier stares at him. Nothing about Geralt’s face, his voice or demeanour indicates a lie. “What do you mean by that?”

Geralt shrugs awkwardly. In the firelight it looks for a moment as though he’s _blushing_ , a thought Jaskier immediately dismisses for the sake of maintaining any scrap of sanity he still possesses. “It’s sex,” the witcher says lamely, after a pause that’s just a second too long to relay the casual tone he’s clearly aiming for. “You’re not unattractive.”

“ _What_?”

Geralt turns to him with a hint of exasperation. “You know people find you attractive. You flaunt it like a damned peacock.”

Jaskier’s head is reeling and only partially from the curse. “Objectively, sure,” he says, still staring at the witcher. “ _People_ find me attractive. _You_ don’t.”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

“And I’m...well, a man!”

Geralt looks thoroughly unimpressed by the statement.

“And you’re not attracted to men.”

Geralt’s brow furrows. He picks up a stick, poking at the fire.

“Geralt. You’re not attracted to men.”

“I don’t recall saying that.”

And...and of course he’s never said it, because he never needed to. Jaskier has provided enough hints over the years, laid enough half-joking propositions before him, that if Geralt had _wanted_ something, he had to know Jaskier would give it.

_He didn’t say he’s attracted to_ you _, you dolt. Men in general._

Right. He needs to stop this line of questioning immediately. This can only lead to more heartache, and that’s not something Jaskier is equipped to handle in his current state.

“What you’re telling me,” he says carefully, “is that you’re not completely repulsed by the idea of sleeping with me for the sake of fulfilling the rather rude strictures of this curse. That it isn’t...isn’t some noble sacrifice that you’ll put on a brave face and _do_ because that’s the kind of man you are? Akin to, I don’t know, wading into waist-high sewage to slay a zeugl?”

Geralt snorts. “Yes, you’re marginally more appealing than a zeugl.” There’s a teasing grin in the corner of his mouth.

Jaskier wants to kiss it away.

Apparently considering the issue decided, Geralt pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the side like it’s the most natural thing in the world then reaches down to pull off his boots. He looks at Jaskier, and there’s a hint of reservation in his eyes, but the tension that haunted every line of his body earlier has lessened. “This’ll go easier without clothes.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, nodding stupidly, his mouth suddenly dry as he’s treated to the pale expanse of scarred skin, glowing gold in the firelight. “Right, yeah, good. Clothes are...right. So I should probably...right.”

Geralt just shakes his head with a little huff of laughter as Jaskier fumbles with the myriad laces and buttons on his ornate court attire.

Now that the grip of terror in his gut has eased a bit, Jaskier can’t help noticing the constant, burning ripples of desire running through him, stronger than before, drinking in every inch of bare skin he’s allowed as Geralt perfunctorily strips down to his smallclothes.

It’s a marvel. Jaskier’s seen Geralt like this thousands of times, shared a bed with him like this hundreds of times, seen him naked as they bathed or changed or swam, but somehow it’s different, somehow the implicit permission to look changes everything. He’s never known a time when he didn’t want Geralt, not since seeing him in the hazy afternoon sunlight in the Posada tavern, but never in the decades between them has he seriously considered the possibility that Geralt might, even in some small way, want him back.

He knows it isn’t the same. The revelation that Geralt is attracted to men and not fundamentally opposed to bedding Jaskier is a far cry from reciprocating nearly a quarter century of love. He won’t mistake the two.

Such a time must seem so short to Geralt.

Geralt’s fumbling through his saddlebags for something that seems to be lost in the very bottom, emerging triumphant with a small vial in his hand.

Jaskier can’t remember what it’s like to breathe.

Geralt slips off his smallclothes gracefully before popping the cork, pouring a bit of oil in his palm, then reaching to smear some between his cheeks with utilitarian efficiency before throwing it to Jaskier without warning.

The bard barely catches the bottle and nearly drops it when he looks over and sees Geralt moving to his hands and knees.

“I...huh. I don’t mean to—that is to say, while I’m not _opposed_ to...”

“Jaskier.” Geralt doesn’t turn to look at him. “He said I was the one you should be fucking. Wording sounded pretty clear.”

He’s right, of course, another reason Jaskier had been dead set against telling him, though that clearly hadn’t gone according to plan. It would have been one thing had the curse specified that Jaskier be on the receiving end, or perhaps that the roles were up for negotiation, but to ask this of Geralt… 

He can’t help drinking in the sight. The strong, thick thighs, muscles straining as he holds his position. The way his balls hang, the weight of them apparent, pink and lovely beneath the soft pale hair. The tight, stunning arse that Jaskier longs to sink his teeth into. Gods. It’s not that he doesn’t want to.

Geralt looks back over his shoulder, nodding at the vial in Jaskier’s hand. “You put it on your cock.”

“I’m perfectly aware how to do it, thank you,” he huffs, but his voice sounds quiet, unnerved even in his own ears. 

He draws close, on his knees between the witcher’s legs. He places a hesitant hand on Geralt’s hip. Geralt startles a little at the touch but doesn’t protest. Jaskier runs the hand up his side, onto his shoulder blades and back down his spine, resting on the small of his back, memorizing the scarred topography. “You’ve done this before?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.”

And isn’t _that_ a thought, Jaskier can’t help but think as his cock twitches aggressively. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him, given the revelation that Geralt’s interests are not exclusively female, but the thought of Geralt stretched out like this before a man, waiting for his cock, waiting to take him, waiting…

“You can get on with it.”

“Right.”

He opens the vial, pouring a generous amount into the palm of his left hand. He drags his fingers through it, stalling a little, before bringing his thumb to the tight pink pucker, rubbing against him in gentle circles, increasing the pressure with each one until the very tip presses in just slightly.

Geralt grunts beneath him but relaxes into the touch.

When Jaskier teases his rim gently, though, working him over carefully, Geralt lets out an impatient huff. “Not some blushing virgin,” he growls. “I’m a witcher, you can’t break me. Have at it already.”

“Geralt, I can’t very well just ram it in without some preparation.”

The witcher doesn’t answer.

_You can’t break me,_ he’d said, as though he doesn’t expect the most basic consideration.

Jaskier sits back on the balls of his feet, using the dry back of his hand to stroke Geralt’s thigh. “We can do it like this if that’s what you’d prefer,” he says softly. “I can stretch you and fuck you like this and that’s fine, if that’s what will make you most comfortable.”

“But?”

Jaskier swallows. “But I’d rather treat you as I might a man who’s come to my bed for entirely nonmagical reasons. Not that I’m expecting any pretense of romance, any wooing or sweet nothings, you understand. It’s just I’d...I’d rather make it good for you, too.”

_I’d rather be good to you,_ he doesn’t say. _I’d rather make love to you._

He tries to push the thought away.

Geralt’s quiet for a moment. “Do as you will.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath and gently rolls Geralt onto his back.

He’s breathtaking. Geralt’s always breathtaking, always the most stunning, extraordinary man Jaskier’s ever seen, but with the firelight glinting off his skin, looking surprisingly bare, vulnerable before him, he’s somehow _more_ than Jaskier’s ever imagined.

Jaskier straddles his thighs, carefully avoiding the half-hard cock before him. He runs a hand along the hard ridges of the witcher’s abdomen, up through the sparse, wispy hair on his chest, ghosting over the thrumming medallion. Every point of contact, every brush of skin is like a balm on the blistering intensity of the magic. “You’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like?” he asks softly.

His irises are a thin ring of gold around wide black pupils. “Yes.”

Jaskier leans forward, draping his body over the witcher’s, and kisses his neck. He feels the rumble in Geralt’s chest and continues, exploring his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Curses may be Geralt’s expertise, but this, this attentive devotion to a lover beneath him, this Jaskier can do.

A tentative hand comes to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder. Not guiding or pressing, not demanding, just there. Grounding. Encouraging.

Jaskier breathes against Geralt’s throat, drinking in the familiar smell of home. Gods, it feels divine to be this close, to feel the rise and fall of Geralt’s chest beneath him. The desperation of the curse settles, still omnipresent but subtler, a background hum. He kisses his way down the broad chest, stopping to nuzzle instinctively against a particular scar above his right nipple. It’s from a griffin hunt years ago, early in their travels together, when Jaskier was little more than a boy. He remembers clear as day. Cleaning the wound, stitching it with shaking, untrained hands as Geralt talked him through it, changing the bandages and monitoring the healing process meticulously. He wonders if all the wounds blend together, or if Geralt remembers too.

As if in answer, Geralt’s hand slides up his neck and into the hair at his nape, carding through in a gesture that feels almost tender.

Jaskier shifts, mouthing at his nipple and delighting in the sharp little breath. “Someone’s sensitive,” he teases with a smile, licking at the hardened nub as he finds the other with his hand.

Geralt groans a little at that, his hips rocking against Jaskier’s stomach before he stills, disciplining his body into rigidity beneath the bard.

Jaskier’s hands slide down to the angular hips, pulling them against him gently. “You don’t have to hold back,” Jaskier murmurs before sucking the nipple into his mouth, luxuriating in the broken moan, the hard grind of his cock. He nips lightly at the flesh, the barest hint of teeth. “Want to make you feel good.”

“You are.”

The words are quiet, breathy, but they send a surge of heat through Jaskier that reignites the desperation he’d successfully tamped down. He hastens his journey down Geralt’s torso, worshipping the defined abs with indulgent licks, trailing down until he feels coarse hair against his chin.

He nudges Geralt’s thighs open and shifts to kneel between them. He nestles his face into his groin, nosing at the base, open lips dragging over tight balls. “Gods, but you’re perfect,” he can’t help whispering, mouthing reverentially at the velvety skin of his sac as he slowly begins stroking Geralt’s gorgeous cock, lingering on a prominent vein.

He moves to kiss at the head, gleaning a lovely moan when he licks away the beading precome, the tip of his tongue chasing the drops for more before he takes the glans in his mouth. 

How many times has he dreamed of this? Imagined taking him down, of using his experienced mouth to wring every ounce of pleasure from within Geralt? Imagined breathing in the scent of him, so familiar and yet strong, concentrated and musky and deep.

But gods, it’s more than any fantasy Jaskier’s concocted. He’s never lacked for imagination, yet he’s entirely unprepared for the nuances, the way Geralt tenses when he tries to stop himself from thrusting up into the warm heat of his mouth, his thighs trembling. He couldn’t have imagined the soft little noises stuck in Geralt’s throat, the way he caresses Jaskier’s hair and forehead, never pushing, never prodding.

In his fantasies, Geralt has always been assertive, aggressive, strong; the way he is in a fight, capable and graceful and a touch domineering. He never expected this: the way he melts beneath Jaskier’s touch, the careful deference, the intoxicating yielding. The trust.

A primal desperation that might be the curse and might just be proximity to Geralt flares within him, hot and needy and clawing through him.

Jaskier sucks him down further as he locates the oil beside them on the bedroll, drizzling it onto his fingers. He brings them to the witcher’s balls first, massaging him, drifting down to pet at his taint before reaching his entrance. He glances up at Geralt, rubbing soothing circles against his rim as he swallows him to the root, but the witcher’s head is thrown back.

He hesitates. He knows what Geralt said, but…

Geralt shifts his hips back against Jaskier’s fingers, once and then again, deliberate.

One slick finger inches in, stretching him with care as Jaskier continues the ministrations on his cock, followed by a second. Geralt rocks his hips back onto Jaskier’s fingers and forward into his mouth. The bard groans and nods furiously as he thrusts deeper, although he’s sweetly conscientious not to choke him (not that Jaskier would necessarily mind a little choking, would in fact _love_ to have Geralt fuck his face, but it doesn’t seem worth pulling off his cock to tell him as much when they’re building such a lovely rhythm).

Three fingers in and the chills return, pushing him forward. Probably for the best, all things considered: Jaskier could luxuriate in this gentle exploration for years if left to his own devices. He crooks his fingers, prodding until…

“ _Fuck_.”

There.

He applies a bit more pressure, rubbing slow, firm circles against his prostate as he bobs his head to meet Geralt’s thrusts, feeling the crown in his throat as Geralt cries out above him. He’s choking out a warning, but Jaskier redoubles his efforts, glancing up to meet his eyes as the first spurt of hot bitter seed hits his tongue. He swallows greedily, desperately, moaning around the twitching cock as he works him through his orgasm.

He lets go as a final shudder racks Geralt’s strong frame, placing a last, feathersoft kiss on the sensitive tip.

Geralt throws an arm across his face as he struggles to regain his breath, splotchy red chest rising and falling somewhat erratically. Jaskier kisses his thigh and rests his head there for a moment, his hand moving to his cock seemingly of its own accord. He strokes himself roughly, the ice-cold burning magical sensation blazing through him. He needs Geralt, needs to be inside him, but he’s most likely overwhelmed and sensitive and Jaskier will be damned before he pressures Geralt into…

His thoughts are interrupted by Geralt _laughing_. Not the bitter, hollow laugh he let out earlier this evening, but a real laugh, the kind friends share when one of them is being ridiculous.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says indignantly, “is something amusing you?”

Geralt shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Only you would find out you’ll die if you don’t fuck and still get your partner off first.”

Jaskier feels the flush spreading to his ears. “It’s only polite,” he insists. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Of course you will. You’re a damned fool, bard.”

“Why, of all the cheek—” and he launches himself at Geralt, pinning him to the bedroll while the witcher cackles beneath him. “And only _you_ would have the nerve to complain about having your cock sucked, you...you unappreciative, boorish...”

Geralt’s legs wrap around his, pulling him closer, and suddenly everything shifts, the very air around them charged with an unspeakable potential. “Not a complaint,” Geralt murmurs. “Just a reminder.”

“There’s very little chance of my forgetting about my plight, I assure you.” Jaskier ruts forward for emphasis, eyes fluttering shut at the friction he generates against Geralt’s hip. He buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder with a groan.

“Hmm. Better get on with it, then.”

“Right.” Jaskier rolls off him to grab the oil, pulling the stopper and wetting his cock.

Geralt takes the opportunity to shift onto his knees with his backside raised, his chest and head pressed against the bedroll

A faint, foolish glimmer of disappointment runs through Jaskier at the impersonal positioning, but he tells himself it’s for the best. To sink into Geralt with the witcher’s legs wrapped tight around his hips, their bodies flush against each other, a tangle of limbs moving in synchronicity, breathing as one as he stares into those golden eyes...Jaskier would never recover from such a thing.

(He’ll never recover from any of this, regardless, if he’s honest with himself, but that’s a heartache for another time.)

Jaskier moves between Geralt’s legs, teasing his slick, stretched rim with a finger even as the insistent pounding within him urges him forward. He lines himself up, rubbing his swollen head against him until he sees Geralt nod silently.

He sinks forward, unable to stop the gasp ripped from him as he slowly sheathes himself within Geralt, gripping his hips with fingers gone white in their effort. Jaskier is a famed lover on the continent; sex always delights him and rarely surprises him, but in all his years of couplings he’s never felt anything comparable to this. Every nerve is alight, singing the absolute _rightness_ of this consummation. He wants to drown in it, wants to be engulfed in these flames, wants to be burned in the electrifying flashes that threaten to annihilate him completely. Wants this to be his end; what could possibly live up to this experience?

It’s the curse, he knows. Just the magical relief of a curse being filled.

But beneath the curse, it’s _Geralt_. Geralt who he’s cherished, Geralt who he’s followed for years, Geralt who didn’t hesitate to come to his rescue even in this. The muse of every song he’s written and the ones he hasn’t but will. To be so close, to inhabit one flesh, to move together, to feel the gentle rhythm of their hips finding the perfect cadence.

_Like a song_ , he thinks dizzily. The slow, heavy tempo; the percussive slaps of flesh against flesh; the melody of his own uncontrollable moans; the soft, gentle accompaniment of Geralt’s panting. The accented beats. The crescendo. The accelerando.

He curls himself around Geralt, desperate for more contact, more touch, more skin against his skin. He brushes the brittle white locks to one side, kissing the graceful arch of the long, pale neck, lips trailing over hard scars, sucking blood-red kisses behind his ear that make Geralt’s breath hitch beneath him, turning to bare more skin for his onslaught.

And it’s that little bit of encouragement that breaks the dam. “Fuck, Geralt,” and he knows he shouldn’t speak, not right now, but he can’t stop the words once they begin to pour from him, “you feel magnificent, darling, I can’t begin to express it, I could write a thousand words in a hundred songs and still never reach the truth of it, never capture your splendor like this.” 

A strong, square hand reaches backwards to cling to the bard’s hip, pulling him deeper, harder. Jaskier is all too happy to oblige, adjusting his angle until Geralt lets out a rough cry, shoving himself back hard against him.

“There you are, darling, fuck yourself on my cock,” Jaskier moans into the crook of his neck. He lets Geralt support his weight, sneaking a hand to the witcher’s erection while planting the other on his chest, drawing him closer, holding him tight. “Take what you want from me, Geralt, anything, you must know I’d gladly give it.”

Geralt turns to look at him over his shoulder, only a breath away.

Jaskier waits, scarcely breathing despite the vigor of their coupling. Waiting for Geralt to say something, to do something.

Gods, but he’s gorgeous like this: lips bitten red, open and panting, dark eyes hooded and fixed on Jaskier’s mouth.

_Oh_.

“Jaskier,” he rasps, and that’s all it takes for the bard to crash their lips together, hard and needy and perfect. Geralt opens beneath him with a moan, deepening the kiss, whimpering into his mouth as Jaskier feels him clench down around him.

A rush, ecstasy like fire and frost and magic and the loudest standing ovation all wrapped into one surge of glorious energy rips through him as he comes, everything but pleasure and feeling and _Geralt_ melting away. 

“Fuck, Jaskier,” comes a hoarse whine from beneath him. _“Fuck.”_

The pleasure hasn’t abated; it morphs, shifts, grows. He feels an inexplicable sense of expansion, connection, as though he’s integrated, linked, tied to the entire universe, rooted within Geralt.

“What the fuck?”

The question snaps him from his reverie. 

The witcher stares at him over his shoulder, eyes wide. Jaskier draws back slightly from Geralt, intending to pull out, yet somehow something snags. He glances down to where they’re joined, a chill running through him at the sight.

The skin of Geralt’s hole is distended slight, revealing a...bulge. The base of Jaskier’s cock is swollen within him, tying them together, like…

Like a dog with a bitch.

“Melitele,” he swears, barely trusting his eyes.

Geralt trembles beneath him. “It’s a knot,” he whispers in disbelief, groaning as Jaskier shifts, inadvertently stimulating his prostate. “Might have mentioned you have a godsdamned _knot_.”

Jaskier splutters. “How was I to know?” he protests, unable to keep the panic from his voice. Based on what he can see, it looks to be at least double the girth of his cock. “It’s never been there before, I can assure you, I certainly would have noticed _that_.”

“Fuck.” Geralt’s quiet for a moment before asking, “What were the sorcerer’s exact words, Jaskier?”

Jaskier hears his question but can barely process the words. When he directs his attention to the knot, he can feel the energy still pumping through him. Geralt is so tight around his knot, milking him so perfectly, it’s nigh impossible to focus on anything else.

Jaskier runs a curious finger gently over the stretched rim and down to the distended flesh, moaning as he feels himself through the thin layer of pale skin. He slowly applies a bit more pressure, stroking the firm, spongy flesh. _Gods._

“Jaskier. The curse.”

“Right.” Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment in an attempt to concentrate. “He said, _Disgusting, hearing you worship that bloody witcher mongrel. If you love your precious White Wolf so much, it’s him you should fuck tonight._ ” He bites his lip, realization dawning on him. “And...and maybe something about breeding you like a bitch?”

Geralt glares at him. “And you didn’t think that was pertinent information?”

“I thought he was just being rude!”

“Hmm.” The witcher considers it for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut when Jaskier shifts. “Just another part of the curse, then,” he mutters, “probably nothing to worry about.” 

With a grunt, he pushes Jaskier back far enough to carefully roll onto his back, the knot stil tying them together. They both moan at the movement as Geralt adjusts beneath him.

A hand finds its way to the back of the bard’s neck, pulling him into a hard, searing kiss. The previous kisses they’ve shared Jaskier initiated, and it sends a new, delicious thrill down his spine to see Geralt take control, pursue his own pleasure.

“Can’t believe you popped a damn knot,” he groans against his lips, wrapping strong legs around Jaskier’s hips and pulling him to rock against him, his cock hard and leaking between them. “What the ever loving fuck.”

“I think you like it,” Jaskier smirks, grinding against him. The knot prevents him from withdrawing enough to truly fuck him, but he simulates the motion, mouthing at Geralt’s Adam’s apple as they thrust together. It’s intimate, sensual, Geralt’s hands tracing over him reverently.

Jaskier reaches between them, creating just enough space to palm Geralt’s erection. “Gods, for years I’ve dreamed about this cock,” he sighs, stroking him in time to the gentle rocking of their hips.

Geralt kisses his jaw, his fingers in Jaskier’s hair. “Could have had it,” he admits quietly. “Wanted you too. Just never knew quite how to say it.”

Jaskier beams into a kiss. “Well, rest assured, now that I’m aware of that I’ll have no such reservations. Gods know I can’t go back to silent pining after tonight.” He snorts. “Although I must admit, when I thought to myself earlier this evening that I wanted to stay inside you forever, I wasn’t imagining it quite like this.” 

He feels the rumble of Geralt’s chuckle resonating through his chest, transforming into a moan as Jaskier finds a particularly pleasurable twist at the head of the witcher’s cock. “Gonna come soon,” Geralt mumbles against his lips, the rhythm of his hips growing faster, more erratic.

“Want you to,” Jaskier breathes, tightening his grip as he jerks his cock furiously. “Fuck, Geralt, want you to taste the ecstasy you’ve given me.” He kisses roughly at his collarbone. “Are you going to come for me, love?”

Geralt buries his cry in a kiss, hot seed flooding between them. He pushes Jaskier’s hand away but pulls him close, despite the mess, shuddering against him.

Jaskier massages his scalp, humming quietly as Geralt comes down. They lie together for what feels like an eternity, no sound but the bard’s soft melodies and light scritches and steady breaths.

After a moment, Jaskier shakes his head. “Fucking sorcerers.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s tone is thoughtful. “Can’t say I’m all that upset with the mage, if this is the outcome.”

Jaskier kisses him lazily, biting at his lower lip. “Do you think the, ahh, the change in my anatomy is permanent?”

“Doubt it. The curse specified _tonight_ pretty clearly. By dawn you’ll most likely return to normal.”

“I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.” He lays his head against Geralt’s chest, breathing him in for a moment of purest peace. Then he sits up, fixing Geralt with a mischievous grin. “But as you said, the curse is most likely in effect until dawn.”

The witcher raises an incredulous eyebrow at him. “Gods, you’re insatiable,” he groans. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Jaskier just smiles sweetly. “That doesn’t sound like a no.”

With a growl, Geralt flips them, pinning the bard beneath him and stealing a light kiss. “It’s not a no.”


End file.
